


The Sentence

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [22]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Legal Drama, Pregnancy, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2249472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While escorting Rukia to the Senzaikyū, Byakuya and Ichigo have a skirmish. Searching for Byakuya, Ukitake stumbles across Hisana, who offers to escort him to the Central 46.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sentence

How could this have happened? It doesn't make sense. Not an ounce of sense can be found, no matter the effort to find it. The crimes do not merit  _this_  sort of punishment. At most, jail time should suffice. The typical punishment would be a public upbraiding. But,  _execution_ ?

Byakuya doesn't know what to think let alone what to  _do_.

He has exhausted every measure, and, yet,  _nothing_. The Central 46 has remained largely unresponsive to his many inquiries. He received the sentencing forms for both Renji and Rukia a few days ago. Renji's insubordination received the usual jail-imposed suspension of duties after some quick maneuvering on Byakuya's part. The original sentence for Renji? A stay in the Nest of Maggots.

Thus far, reducing Renji's sentence is the only request that the Chambers has granted. Rukia, however? Nothing. It does not make any logical sense, and, while the Central 46 is susceptible to some underhanded dealings, the judicial branch typically pays lip service to the highborn. Patently, ignoring requests? It is  _unheard of_ behavior.

That day, Byakuya also received a transfer request from the Thirteenth for Renji, meaning that Jūshirō has been made aware of the charges leveled against his adjutants. As is customary, Byakuya approved the transfer of Renji from the Sixth's containment to the Thirteenth; however, with the current upheaval regarding the Ryoka invasion, all the paperwork and processes have effectively screeched to a  _halt._  Now, all movements and requests require  _committee_ approval, which has  _chilled_  even the most mundane of inter- and intra-division transactions.

If the Gotei 13 has enacted such measures, then the Central 46 is surely galvanized to take an even more conservative approach to business as usual.

"It's time, Captain Kuchiki."

The words reach him on a delay. They have all but faded into the background before he even acknowledges the small youth, who alerts him to the time. It is Mihane. Nervously, she lifts her head, and the overhead lighting catches in the lenses of her glasses, veiling her eyes.

He stares at her, searchingly. He hasn't quite collected his thoughts or his composure. In fact, he wonders if his subordinate can see the conflict playing in the depths of his gaze. Does she know of his torture? Can she discern the war that wages just slightly beneath the surface of his stare?

Probably not.

He actively avoids the only soul in the world, both the living and dead, who  _can_  see through his façade. And, how his heart strangles at this absence. It strangles at the thought of watching his sister and Vice Captain perish without a proper fight.

"Yes." The response is surprisingly quick and cutting despite his fractured thoughts.

Mihane flinches, and she turns her cheek, as if she is bracing herself. "The Onmitsukidō guards wait." Her voice is strained, and she keeps her gaze glued to the floorboards.

"Thank you, Shirogane." His reply is heavy with  _you're now dismissed_ , and, reading his expression well, she immediately swivels on the balls of her heels and exits the room.

Byakuya watches her round the corner before succumbing to his own hateful dread. He drops his head, and he heaves a troubled breath. What options remain? By willful dilatoriness alone, he has managed to spare Rukia a few days in the Senzaikyū, but that has been the extent of his influence, which is undeniably  _pitiful_. There must be something else he can do. Has to be. If only….

His heart slams to a stop at the thought of consulting his wife on this matter. If anyone could navigate the muddy and mired politesse of the Chambers, it would be Hisana. Her years of serving judges and administrators as a courtesan has earned her much regard and… _affection…_  and her dealings with the Central 46 for business arrangements have made her indispensable among the Kuchiki. But, he cannot bring himself to do it. This is  _his_  domain, after all. Hisana loathes the politics between the Gotei 13 and the Central 46. She finds the entire arrangement intensely unsettling, and, for the most part, the division of labor has proven their relationship well. He manages his duties as Captain and Clan Head with great pride, and she handles the family's finances and business with great acumen. To trouble her  _now_  with an issue that falls squarely within his realm of power and control would be unfathomable, especially given her current  _condition_.

_But…._

Right about now, he wishes he knew  _someone_  who could grant him an insider's view of the Central 46. There are relatives, of course, who serve the Central 46 in various capacities, but….

Exhaling a heavy breath, he shakes his head. Has it really come to this? he wonders. He has never been one for political maneuvers, but he resolves himself to do what he believes, ordinarily, would be  _unethical_. He will consult with the Kuchiki who have given their lives to the legislative and judicial branches. At this point, he is willing to  _cut_  strings rather than just pull them to keep his family intact.

It has become a  _necessity_ , now.

With great solemnity, he stands and goes to greet the Onmitsukidō guards. A few nodding acknowledgments and some polite bowing later, they reach the Sixth's cellblock, where he can barely  _look_  at Rukia.

The guilt is there, ready and roaring to burst forth so he hides his gaze behind heavily lidded eyes and a turn of his head. He wonders whether she  _understands_  his hesitance to greet her with his usual subdued warmth and kindred spirit.

She probably  _doesn't_ , and he tortures himself on this thought. Like an animal caught in barbed wire, he struggles with what to do, say, or how to respond to her wide-eyed innocent stare, one that is so reminiscent of her sister, of his wife.

 _Gut-wrenching_  doesn't even begin to describe the feeling hounding his innards. Pain stains his features and sears through his fibers. Every part of him feels unwieldy and leaden. The burden of impending failure blows a wintry chill across his soul. His brows knit together, and worry-lines crease his forehead. Even his lips slope into a deep frown.

He only hopes that she doesn't  _see_  it—that she doesn't see his anguish at the situation. Knowing Rukia, she will blame herself. She is probably  _already_  blaming herself. And, for what? A poorly rendered decision given without the benefit of the simplest forms of due process.

"Come, Rukia," he murmurs, training the doubt from his voice.

"Captain Kuchiki needn't escort us," one of the guards politely informs him. "It isn't customary for a Captain to trouble himself with such a task."

No. That is correct. The job of escorting prisoners is usually reserved for the Vice Captain; however, given the circumstances, that arrangement is impossible. "I insist." He is firm, both in voice and stare, and the guard capitulates with a low, groveling bow.

Quiet hands and soundless motions cloak Rukia in the spiritually restrictive garments of her confinement. The guards are both quick and proficient. They do not expend a careless brush of the hand or flicker of a finger as they tether and blind her.

Byakuya refuses to watch or partake in the spectacle. Instead, he lingers at the door, eyes roaming the floor as he waits, patient but perturbed. For a brief moment, his gaze darts up to find Renji staring him down like a dog does when it catches a whiff of fresh meat.

Byakuya lifts his head, meeting Renji's heated stare with an icy one of his own, but his ice does not melt the clear disdain marking the young man's countenance. There is a passionate hatred resonating in Renji's eyes that Byakuya doubts any man could tame with a single look alone; instead, Byakuya turns a blind eye to Rukia's fiercely loyal companion. In truth, he would have it no other way. At the very least, Rukia has a similarly decorated companion to watch after her, assuming she makes it out of the Senzaikyū alive.

"We are ready, Captain."

Byakuya gives a consenting nod of his head, and the coterie begins their way to the Senzaikyū. Nary a word is spoken. Even the footfalls hit the ground with an eerie soundlessness, as if the guards are too afraid to tear the stale quiet that blankets the violent maelstrom that lingers just below. When they reach the jail, perched high in the clouds, one of the guards informs Rukia that her execution is in twelve days' time.

She doesn't flinch as they unveil her.

She keeps a brave face as she processes the news.

Byakuya lowers his head and comports himself.

Ushering her into the cell, one of the guards begins to explain  _why_  the jail is set so high. "So you can  _repent_  for the crimes—" the man begins, voice brimming with gleeful  _schadenfreude_.

"Enough," Byakuya states. His pointed sentiments cleanly cuts through the guard's explanation like a warm knife through butter.

"Apologies, Captain." Bumbling in his contrition, the guard bows, deep and respectful.

Byakuya stands perfectly still, perfectly unmoved. "You may leave us." It isn't a request. It is an order, and he delivers it with such intensity that it sends the guards scurrying to the door. One particularly daring guard hovers over the cell's threshold and stares. There is a question trapped in the veiled man's gaze. This question roots him to the ground, but he cannot find his nerve to ask it. Knowing all too well what locks the guard's step, Byakuya replies to the unasked inquiry with an even, "I will seal the exits." He does not spare the subordinate a second glance. The gentle breeze of the man's departure tells Byakuya all he needs to know, and, with great effort, he lowers his gaze to Rukia.

Donning the stark white kimono that announces her status as both powerless and marked, she stands before him  _shell_   _shocked_. Fear dances in her large blue eyes, and her color bleeds from her cheeks. She expects something  _horrible_ , and, instinctively, Byakuya wonders why she regards him with such distress.

"Please forgive me, Brother." Her words pour from her lips in a jumbled mess of consonants and vowels, and she bows. It is a deep, pained sort of bow—the type that is reserved for only the greatest of shame. "You and Sister have been—"

"Rukia Kuchiki," he says, careful to enunciate each syllable clearly and crisply. His voice comes over her like the sound of a low rolling thunderclap. It isn't cruel. It isn't chastising. His voice simply tells her that he will not tolerate this sort of behavior from an officer or a sibling. "Stand at attention," he directs her, and, in an instant, her back goes ramrod straight, and her chin jerks up.

A fluttering movement later, and she is straining to meet his gaze, but, just before they connect, she refuses him. Her head drops down, and her eyes become dark and unreadable. "I," she starts, clearly unsure of  _where_  to go with her next thought.

Before she can continue, he clasps her right hand in his. His skin is cold and coarse, but there is warmth in his touch that draws her thoughts from her inner turmoil. Gently, he molds her hand around the object that he places against her palm. The item is both soft and rigid, slick and textured. Her breath catches in her throat, and, reflexively, her grip tightens for fear of dropping whatever precious gift her brother has bestowed upon her.

Briefly, she relishes the tactile sensation of the object against her flesh. She feels the protuberances and depressions of wood coupled with the cool silken touch of fabric. Then, realization, stark and heart-stopping, hits her, and her eyes immediately sweep down to find that clenched in her hand is a badge. It is the arm-badge worn by Vice Captains. The black silk winds around her wrist and cascades down the slope of her arm in an inky waterfall. Her gaze hungrily takes in each line and indentation of the wood. The sigil and number are unmistakable—it is the Vice Captain's badge for the Sixth.

Gaping, her head thrusts up, and she stares at him, questioningly. The words never manifest, but they dance in her gaze. It takes all her mental faculties just to stifle the small mewl that tickles the back of her throat. Forming words? That's out of the question. But, she manages to swallow the tragic sensation of accomplishments promised but lost to circumstance with a dry gulp, and she lowers her head. Once more, she searches the floor, finding cracks in the cement floor to keep her attention. One particularly large break centers her thoughts, and, for a brief moment, she feels a sense of clarity as her nerves begin to calm. "Brother," she begins, voice throaty and composure slowly crumbling.

"You are Kuchiki and a member of the Sixth." His words come as a stark reminder of  _what_  he expects of her and  _who_  she is. Whether she lives or dies, she is a proud member of his family and his division.  _No matter what_.

"But—" She cannot bring herself to admit it. She is set to die. With her sentence, she has placed her family's good name in jeopardy, and, for this, she feels immense grief and contrition.

Interpreting her concern with a shrewdness that comes only with age and practice, he silences her frantic glimpses with a stern, almost parental, look. "Never lower yourself, Rukia. Even in the face of death, you carry with you the Kuchiki pride." In a regal line, he lifts his head. His eyes are set, and his features assume the patented Kuchiki hardness that she has come to know and revere. She finds strength in that stare, and she appreciates the fact that he lends her even a molecule of his confidence.

Finding the cusp of fear that sinks her and unclasping it, she lifts her head and sheds her apprehension and self-pity. "I promise, Brother." With a firm nod of her head, she meets his gaze and holds it.

Resolution swells in her chest and almost bursts forth.  _Almost._ _Until…._

"Miss Rukia!"

Byakuya breaks away and turns to face the entrance of the cell. He recognizes the voice. It belongs to a young a male, and, when he catches a glimpse of the approaching Shinigami, he recognizes the youth as the janitor who cleans the Sixth's cellblock. Han-something-or-other.

Immediately, Rukia shoots forward but stops short of the cell's threshold. Her arms flail at her sides, and she vigorously shakes her head. From Byakuya's vantage point, he swears he sees her mouthing a soundless warning to the solider.

"Miss Rukia!" the boy calls again. He mistakes her gesticulations as an invitation to continue. More concerning to Byakuya, however, is that the boy never questions why the cell door is wide open. The boy stops short, standing in the middle of the bridge, turns, and waves an arm in a swooping arch over his head. "C'mon!" he calls, excitedly behind him.

Another man approaches. This one, Byakuya is uncertain of, and he steps in front of Rukia, defensively. Instinctively, he sends a threatening burst of reiatsu hurtling toward the pair, which hits the boy with such force that he cowers under the wave of raw power.

Pinning the youth, Byakuya then focuses on the strange man, who stands a short distance behind the Shinigami. He is tall and stoutly built, and he has a roughness to him that is instantly familiar and disconcerting. The man wears a curious armless-shirt, a vest, and loose pant, and his ruggedness is reminiscent of a certain clan that has fallen from grace a few years ago. His arms, brawny and tanned from hours of labor in the sun, flex as he braces against Byakuya's surging spiritual pressure. He doesn't break like the youth from the Fourth, but he halts and examines the source of the sudden disturbance.

Recognition lights the burley man's visage, and he tucks his chin to his neck, like a warhorse preparing for a charge. A fire burns in his gaze, and, in that instant, Byakuya remembers who, exactly, stands before him. It is Ganju Shiba. He hasn't seen Ganju for  _years,_ not since Kaien's funeral. Ganju was just a mere boy, then.

He's not a boy, now.

"Br-bro-brother." Rukia struggles to breathe, and she falls to her knees. With one hand, her fingers curl around the shackle that circles her neck, and, with her other hand, she steadies herself, palm pressed against the cool cement.

His reiatsu has proven too much for her to handle in her current state, and, he is quick to pull back, restraining the deluge of pressure. "Who are you?" His question is pointed and is clearly directed at Ganju.

Ganju takes the opening, and he sprints forward, but he is waylaid by the Fourth's foot solider. Whether it was by design or accidental, Byakuya doesn't know nor does he contemplate it much further as he watches the young Shiba take a hard spill to the ground.

 _How disgraceful_.

Byakuya does not even attempt to hide his contempt as he watches the Shiba peel himself from the bridge's planks with a strange spirited  _gusto_. Byakuya turns a cold shoulder to the spectacle, and he shakes his head. Exasperation fills his chest, and he wonders where Rukia found, let alone befriended,  _these_  children.

Unconsciously, his bemused gaze blankets Rukia, who is slowly recovering and has managed to sit up. She shoots him a pleading glance. A small worried nod confirms what he already suspects. These men are well-meaning but ultimately  _harmless_.

 _The cavalry, no doubt_ , he thinks to himself.

If these are Rukia's saviors, then he is going to have to push more paper and wrestle down his contacts because  _this_  is a  _pitiful_  showing, indeed.

His hand rests assured on the hilt of his Zanpakutō, but he has a sinking feeling that he can resolve this matter without resorting to fisticuffs. If he cannot? Well, neither one of the surely high-minded but clearly  _suicidal_  "rescuers" poses much of a threat.

"Leave," he murmurs, "if you value your lives." Rukia is in enough trouble—trouble that proves to be a solid obstacle for  _him_. The  _last_  thing she needs is  _this_  incident to wind up in some report as  _evidence_  against her. It is a fine line between justice and insurrection, and the Central 46 frowns at the latter and considers the former as a vile sort  _vigilantism_ , which is  _also_  punishable at law.

"What is with you nobles and your  _arrogance_?" Ganju replies as he dusts the dirt from his pants. "If you think your fancy high-talk is gonna deter  _me_ , a Shiba, from  _anything_ , then you're dead wrong, little lord. So, get going. We're here to save the girl." Valiantly, his fingers wrap around the grip of his blade, and he lowers himself into a battle posture. Judging by the weight he places on his left leg, Byakuya assumes the boy is going to attempt the same sprinting maneuver from before.

He represses the urge to  _glower_  at such foolhardiness, but, despite a rather half-hearted attempt, an exasperated disapproval paints him. This is going to end poorly for the Shiba, he observes with some well-earned confidence.

Before proceeding, Byakuya's gaze slips down to Rukia, who is feverishly shaking her head. Wordlessly, she implores him to act with mercy. His shoulders slightly relax, and his grip loosens on his hilt.  _What a fine mess_.

Grudgingly, his gaze then drifts to the Shinigami and Ganju. A heavy weight falls over him, sinking his heart like a stone in water. He's in no mood to kill weaklings, altruistic or otherwise, and Rukia has seen enough, already.

How absolutely pointless.

Before Byakuya can command Ganju to stand down, the burley man-child rushes forward.

With more lethargy than he would care to admit, Byakuya soundly drops the man to a knee. "Leave," he says in a listless cadence.

But, ever the Shiba, Ganju stubbornly clings to his ideals. Finding his footing, the Shiba juts his chest forward with great pride, and a bitter smirk lengthens his lips. He has more to give, and, dammit, he will not be deterred. He lifts his head, and he stares at Byakuya as if he has another trick up his sleeve since the duel firecrackers proved ineffective.

It's a bluff. Byakuya knows it. More importantly, Ganju knows Byakuya knows it. If he moves forward with whatever asinine plan he's concocted in his head, Ganju's going to wear himself out and then where will he be? He certainly will be of no use to Rukia or whoever else is behind this poorly executed  _rescue_  mission.

"That ain't nothing," Ganju boasts between panting breaths. Blood begins to seep from his side, but he ignores it, pretending he stands virtually unharmed.

To be sure, the laceration isn't deep enough to kill him. The strike was only designed to disable the fool. It was never Byakuya's intention to strip the Shiba of yet another male member.

"Gonna have to do better than  _that_  to put me down, little lord."

Byakuya glares at the intrepid idiot standing before him. "As you wish." Unceremoniously, he unsheathes his sword, and, with a heavy sigh, he prepares his release.

"Brother!" Rukia cries. She bolts forward, fingers catching in the fall of his captain's haori.

Feeling the pull of fabric against his broad shoulders, he stops short of letting go of his release. His sword hums, ready for his command, but he swallows the word when he sees the desperation written in his sister's face. Wide eyes, pale complexion, and beads of sweat paint her in shades of horror—a horror that he does not wish upon her.

A tense grimace locks his jaws, and, solemnly, he sheathes his Zanpakutō.

"Hah!" Ganju chuckles. "Too afraid?"

 _Hardly_.

Rukia rebukes Ganju's goading. "Stop it!" she cries, fixing him in an icy glare.

Rukia's chiding also spurns the Fourth's solider to echo her sentiments in  _kinder_ ,  _gentler_  words. "Please, Ganju," the young Shinigami calls, beseechingly. None of this seems to concern Ganju, but, before the Shiba can make a bigger fool of himself, Byakuya quickly chains Ganju in a low-level binding spell. The binds prove effective, and the Shiba dives to the bridge, leaving only a mountainous heap of muscle, bone, and hair.

"Captain Kuchiki!"

Both Byakuya and Rukia turn to the sound of the voice. It is low, but cheery, and it unmistakably belongs to only one person. "Ukitake." Byakuya maintains a stoic expression as he turns slightly to eye the good captain.

"I've been looking for you!" Briefly, Ukitake pauses mid-step to examine both Ganju, who struggles against his binds, and the Fourth's man. He cocks a brow as he tries to place the two. It doesn't take him long to recognize Ganju, despite his battered state, but the boy isn't jogging any memories.

Giving up, Ukitake's gaze drifts up to find Rukia still kneeled behind the threshold of her cell. "Kuchiki," Ukitake murmurs, nodding happily in her direction. He lifts a hand to his brow in a makeshift salute, and she reciprocates his greeting with a low bow of her head.

"Captain Ukitake."

"What is the meaning of this?" Byakuya asks, staring dead-eyed at his colleague.

Ukitake flashes a boyish grin. "It's serious," he says, leaning his head closer to Byakuya.

Instinctively, Byakuya tilts his head toward Ukitake, and he listens.

"It's Captain Aizen. Late last night—"

Byakuya nods, interrupting the captain with a curt, "Yes." He knows, but Rukia does not, and, likely, neither do the Ryoka. It is a tangled mess of a situation—one that is seemingly becoming worse with each passing moment.

Ukitake's lips part. A soft grumbling noise begins to emerge from his lips, but, before the noise can take the form of coherent words, a blast of reiatsu overwhelms the bridge.

Ganju and the Fourth's solider recoil. Rukia falls forward. Her tremoring arms catch her just before she kisses the ground. Even Ukitake and Byakuya brace against the immense wave of energy that washes over them.

"What is that?" Ukitake turns to face the bridge's entrance. "It's at least a captain-level reiatsu, but I don't recognize it."

Unfortunately, Byakuya does, and his hand clenches the hilt of his sword.

Rukia raises her head, and, shakily, she stands. Her body trembles like a leaf in a zephyr, but she is resolute. She knows that feeling, that scent, better than anyone else on the bridge. "Can it be?" Her question is swiftly eclipsed by the sudden presence of her friend, Ichigo.

Like a bird, he perches on the bridge. The pair share a glance, and she is certain he is going to address her properly. Just as she begins to string together a soulful  _rebuke_ , Ichigo leaves her in the chill of his wake and immediately goes to Hanatarō and Ganju, neither looking particularly  _well_.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

The answer is clearly  _no_. No, they are most certainly  _not_  well.

After some mild comforting words, Ichigo turns to Rukia, and, refusing to meet her meek stare, he promptly announces, "I'm here to save you."

Byakuya's glare heats the soul, and his fingers wrap so firmly around the hilt of his Zanpakutō that he can feel the stitching of the grip begin to imprint its design into his flesh. Hatred would be too  _kind_  a word for what he feels toward Ichigo Kurosaki, the  _catalyst_  that has caused this blight upon his house. No, he  _despises_  that child, whose wanton entitlement only slightly outmatches his willful ignorance of his place in the world and its inhabitants. If it were not for Kurosaki, none of these sordid and torrid events would be shaping the fabric of Soul Society as they stand there. Rukia would be free, Aizen would likely be alive, and there would be  _peace_. But, no. Instead, the Breaker of Peace and the Fastener of Chains stands before him with the  _audacity_ and brazen  _gall_  to declare himself Rukia's  _savior_.

What hubris.

A quiet violence brews in Byakuya's reiatsu. His spiritual pressure churns like a sea that rages in the midst of a tempest. It is relentless. It bears down on the soul, seeking not only to fell it but also to destroy it completely until nothing remains. The colors of a white-hot disdain bends the lines of his features. His displeasure is so complete it simultaneously dulls and amplifies the senses: While he cannot hear the words between Ichigo and Rukia over the thrumming din of his blood rushing through his veins and pounding in his ears, he responds to the slightest change in spiritual pressure. His raw rancor blinds him, painting his world in the starkest shades of black and white, of right and wrong.

"Who is that?" Ukitake asks, dipping his head toward Byakuya. The captain's breath is moist and smells of various tonics and spice. It is the scent of alcohol and tea that pulls Byakuya from his contemplation, not the captain's words.

"No one." There is an edge to his voice—one that would render lesser men witless.

Ukitake's gaze trails down to find Byakuya's hand poised to strike. "It doesn't seem like  _no one_."

Byakuya barely detects Ukitake's voice as he takes a small step forward. Pinning Ichigo with a powerful blast of pressure, the boy glances up from his conversation with Rukia.

"So careless," the boy says and clucks his tongue. He gives a slow shake of his head, and a smirk spreads across his face as he reaches for his ridiculously-sized Zanpakutō. "Letting me confer with your prisoner for so long. I think you're losing your edge."

"Do not think so highly of your inconsequential plans because I surely do not,  _boy_." Byakuya discharges another wave of intense spiritual pressure. It barrels toward Ichigo before blanketing the bridge in a suffocating bubble of hyperkinetic molecules.

Everything begins to hum at a frequency that hammers down Rukia. She fights it. She does. But, her body cannot withstand the barrage, and she collapses, body seizing under his sheer concentration of reiatsu.

It is brief, but Byakuya flinches when he hears the soft thudding sound of his sister's knees hitting the boards. His placid demeanor tenses, his jaws lock, and his eyes widen. Realizing his mistake, he forces his attention away from Rukia, and he quickly redresses the slip of his mask.

Ichigo, however, notices the sudden change in his opponent, and his eyes shift to find Rukia fighting to pull air. The sight of his friend also causes a visceral reaction in him. His eyes harden, his jaw clenches, and his brows lower over a determined gaze.

"Leave,  _boy_." Byakuya's voice is low and whetted to a dangerous point.

"Not before I defeat you."

"Very well, then. Let your arrogance be your death sentence. Your life is insignificant to me," Byakuya counters, and, with a graceful motion, he draws his sword, places it vertically before his face, and he utters a single, quiet word. "Scatter."

Rukia struggles against the combined spiritual stew that roils her. Helplessly, she reaches out, but, unlike last time, Byakuya is too far away, and Ichigo is too stubborn. "Please," she hisses in a wheezy voice.

Byakuya feels the flutter of his sister's meager reiatsu against his own, but it isn't enough. Not this time. Ichigo Kurosaki stole his  _pride_ , and those actions are worthy of only the greatest contempt.

Resolve spreads through him. It narrows his thoughts. It weaves through his fibers and sinews. It sets his next mode of action, but, before his blade can disburse, a cloth wraps the steel, sealing it.

 _Yoruichi Shihōin_.

He should've guessed. He knew it all along. Part of him, anyway. Ever since he cast that infernal black cat out of his manor. He knew it was she, then. He  _should have known_  something was awry. Why else would she return? After over a hundred years absence, what does she have to gain by returning?

He stares at her. A remote look smoothes the lines of his face. It is a feign. Simmering just beneath the surface of his distant stare, there is a fierce burning  _pain_  that sears his soul upon seeing her. She stands before him, almost untouched by time. Only her hair has changed, all else is just as he remembers.

"You don't seem surprised, little Byakuya." She folds her arms against her chest, and she tilts her head to the side. Everything about her taunts him, from her voice to the ironic gleam that lights those keen eyes.

Suddenly, memories, long buried, are unearthed, and he feels a rush of callow youth race through his veins. The fine strands of muscles in his legs and back burn under the strain of holding himself back. It is instinctual. He knows he will need to prepare himself for the mad dash that she has in store for him. He can see it in her eyes, and he can see it in the way her hips shift from right to left. It's a feign. He already knows. She will bolt right if she bolts at all.

"I appreciate the thought, Ms. Yoruichi, but could you please step aside. I've got to defeat this guy," Ichigo states matter-of-factly.

" _Defeat this guy_?" She wheels around to shoot Ichigo an incredulous glare. " _Are you serious?"_

Ignoring Yoruichi's not-so-subtle nonverbal cues, Ichigo nods his head. "Yeah."

She frowns before declaring of Ichigo, "You're an idiot."

In a blink of an eye, she propels herself forward. Her movements are so swift, so purposeful that Ichigo never sees her coming. It is too late before he can even react. In a matter of seconds, the world goes dark, and he heaves forward.

Yoruichi pulls her arm back to reveal a bloodied hand, and Ichigo slumps over with a grunt. Adroitly, she catches him before he falls forward, and she steadies him against her shoulder. "Such a dolt," she teases under her breath.

"It's a tranquilizer, isn't it, Yoruichi?" Ukitake stirs behind Byakuya, and his eyes are laser-focused on Yoruichi's red right hand. "You're trying to save him, aren't you?" There is a current of empathy undulating in Ukitake's voice, but his eyes belie his confusion. The good captain isn't quite sure how to interpret her motives.

"Ukitake," she murmurs, voice low and eyes full of conflict. Her lips part, but the words never come. Instead, her mouth forms a taut compact line, and she gives a small nod of her head before turning to leave.

Byakuya starts after her, but Ukitake throws up an arm. It is instinctual, and, surprisingly, effective. Byakuya stops short, and he exchanges a heated glance with the elder captain. He readies a fiery retort, but, when he turns to his childhood mentor, he finds that she has disappeared. All traces of her have simply evaporated.

He always hated that about her.

"They got away," he mutters to himself, but, before their hasty departure can foment his ire, the loud slapping sound of flesh against wood pulls his attention and distracts him from his dark thoughts. He turns to find his sister sprawled across the slick hardwood, rendered unconscious on the bridge.

"Rukia," he murmurs in the middle of a heavy breath, and he goes to her side. Gently, he folds her into his arms. She is light and frail. The weeks locked away has eaten at her soul, leaving her brittle and ready to shatter. Standing, he resolves to fix this. He must.

There is heaviness in heart that sounds in his footsteps as he traces his way back to her cell, where he leaves her.

"Captain Kuchiki," Ukitake begins once he emerges.

Byakuya shakes his head. "This is none of your concern, Ukitake." He doesn't want to hear it. Nothing Ukitake can say will be of any assistance, and, right then, he doesn't desire to entertain Ukitake's brand of  _advice_.

"Byakuya!" his elder calls after him.

Byakuya ignores the sound of his name, and he continues forward, winding his way toward the center of the city.

* * *

"Byakuya?"

The voice is strikingly familiar, and Hisana turns from the gardener to the sound of the query. Indeed, she  _knows_  that voice, and only a handful of souls dare to refer to her husband so casually.

_Captain Ukitake?_

Indeed, she is correct in her assessment. Standing only a few meters away, on the walkway, is none other than Captain Ukitake, brandishing a worried and frantic expression. His brow is heavy and knit, and his lips part, ready to launch another call for her husband.

_What is he doing here unannounced?_

Not that she particularly minds, but it is aberrant behavior for the good captain to  _show up_  out of the blue at Kuchiki manor without reason, and her husband's visits to the estate have become disturbingly  _infrequent_.

_Doesn't he know that Byakuya does not wander these halls?_

"Captain Ukitake," she begins, "the Lord is not in residence. May I be of service?" She gives the gardener an obliging nod before taking a few steps toward the breezeway, wiping the soil from her hands on her apron.

For a moment, Ukitake appears taken aback. "Hisana." Her name falls from his mouth in a heavy monotone. He is clearly trying his best to think his way out of a private logic game.

Climbing a few steps, she stops an arm's length from the good captain, and she offers him a warm compliant smile. Words cannot describe how much she would enjoy a thorough distraction—anything to break the boredom and to pull her thoughts from the ever-present, ever-burning  _ache_  in her body. "Yes, please. Is there anything that I can do to assist you?"

"Hisana, I could not possibly impos—"

She raises her hand before he can complete the word, "—of course you can. I have been cooped up for so long. I insist."

Ukitake lifts his head at this. "Is that so?"

In a graceful line, she gestures to the estate. "It is beautiful, I know. I shouldn't complain, but—" Her voice dies in the air, ending on a sour note.

 _It may be gilded, but it's still just a cage_.

He nods, knowingly. Ukitake is extraordinarily perceptive, and, she has no doubt that he  _observed_  the fleet of guards running patrols around the manor on his way into the estate. The barrier, too, while enough to keep her locked inside, is easy fodder for a man of Ukitake's skill.

"I'm surprised you were given admittance," she says, conversationally, and the two begin to stroll across the walkway.

"Yes. I noticed the inordinate amount of guards, but I suppose, in light of recent events, Byakuya's actions are prudent."

Hisana pauses. Her own ignorance paralyzes her. "What recent events?"

Ukitake gives her an apprehensive sidelong glance.

She plays it off with a small chuckle. "Excuse my lack of knowledge on current events, Captain Ukitake. Apparently, Lord Byakuya finds my state so fragile that he refuses me even the luxury of the morning news."

A troubled shade colors Ukitake's features. His eyes widen, his lips pull into a compact line, and his jaw clenches. Hisana is half-expecting a detailed explanation, but he stops himself.

 _The news must be really bad_.

Although, she  _assumed_  that much, right when her husband ordered the servants to intercept the newspapers. Part of her suspects that the news concerns Rukia. It is the missing puzzle piece. Every time she inquires after her sister, she is met with prevarications and digressions. She has only her imagination to fill in the holes, and the darkness that weaves through her thoughts is  _oppressive_.

"There has been a small infraction," Ukitake murmurs, reading her troubled heart. "It is nothing for you to worry about."

Hisana's head pops up at this, and she catches him in one of her winsome glances. "Oh?" She craves  _more_  information, but, for now, she is content to savor that tiny morsel of news. At the very least, it explains her husband's prolonged absence at the manor. It is as she has suspected. He cannot bring himself to  _lie_  to her, but he cannot bring himself to tell her the truth, either.

"Yes. I came here to inquire after the Central Chambers' procedures."

Hisana pulls her chin toward her neck, and her eyes betray her sudden confusion. "The Central Chambers should be in recess at this time."

"Oh?"

"The whole month. Their last day was the first of the month."

Ukitake seems genuinely surprised at this. "Is that so?" Then, once more, she loses him to his tangled thoughts—thoughts that he is desperately attempting to unknot but will not reveal.

Hoping to shed some light on what is obviously confusing him, she adds, "Unless they are holding a special session, which would mean they are considering something very grave."

"You seem to know a lot about the Chambers' workings." Ukitake shoots her a puzzled albeit  _good-natured_  stare, and Hisana cannot help but notice the gentle but wavering skepticism that courses through his voice.

She nods her head. "I was required to serve judges and administrators for two months every year during my tenure in the Third District. Then, there are the various noble pursuits that require the Chambers' approval."

A sly, boyish grin thins his lips, and he raises a brow. "Ah. And, here, I thought they were cloistered from all outside influences."

Politely, she giggles into the sleeve of her kimono. "Only if those influences carry light coin purses, my dear captain."

Tilting his head at this, he shoots her a perceptive glance. A teasing accusation radiates from those dark eyes, and he waits for her to explain herself.

Lifting a palm in her defense, she very wryly adds, " _Not_  that any of the Kuchiki would  _ever_  attempt such ignoble modes of influence, but it does help that several high-ranking administrators are relatives."

"So it's nepotism then,  _not_  bribery," he says, sardonically.

Mischievously, she shakes her head. "I dutifully deny any and all aspersions cast on my family."

Then, in an instant, his playful glances become quite serious. "Hisana, do you happen to know how one may approach the Chambers without a formal proceeding?"

Her lips tremble. It is slight, and she prays he does not see her hesitation. "Of, course, Captain Ukitake. I am intimately acquainted with several of the clerks. I could force an issue if necessary."

"I appreciate your assistance." His eyes fall to her very pregnant state, and he grimaces. "I would not ask if it wasn't—"

Before he has the chance to express his guilt in words or expressions, she stops him with a glance. "I insist."

If she's going to unravel the mystery of why her husband is behaving so peculiarly and why her sister is gone, this is her chance, and she's holding onto it with both hands, white-knuckled.

The pair continue, making gentle conversation, as they follow a well-treaded footpath toward Seireitei. They make it only a few kilometers from the estate when they are stopped. Three guards, dressed in purple shinobi shōzoku with the Kuchiki crest etched into their head plates, move into position, blocking the trail. While their faces are partially veiled, she can see the recognition in their eyes. Their brows furrow, and deep wrinkles set what is left exposed of their foreheads. Their tongues are tied in Gordian knots. The only intelligible sound comes in the form of a questioning scoff.

Duty binds their hearts. She can tell from the hesitant stances; although, they stand their ground well enough. Their master would be proud, Hisana thinks. But, a small fluttering tremor hints at their crumbling resolve. Orders from on high, however, stay their feet and keep them rooted to the ground.

"Lady Kuchiki," one of the men cries. Confusion and horror spills from his voice. "Captain Ukitake." Submissively, he lowers his head.

Hisana flashes a gentle smile and nods her head. "The good captain and I are on our way to the city," she responds. Her heart starts as she waits, knowing all too well that the guards are under strict orders to keep her  _in_  and guests  _out_  of the estate.

Likely, they are feeling remiss about allowing Captain Ukitake entry. It is an oversight, but one that could not be helped. Ukitake could easily outmaneuver a  _platoon_  of similarly skilled men. Her husband, however, will not see it that way. No, if he discovers the men's failure, forgiveness will be the  _last_  thing on his mind.

Now, especially, they will not allow her to leave. They cannot. Her orders and wishes are second to her husband's. They always have been. They always will be.

And, so, she waits patiently for the inevitable refusal.

Her breath catches in her chest. Her heart slows its pace; it becomes a thready but thudding din sound in her ears. The smile on her face remains, but her lips burn from the strain.

"Lady Kuchiki," one of the guards begins. His voice is low, conciliatory. He is preparing to give her the  _bad news_ , and, judging by the length of the pause he takes, it requires great effort to gather his nerve. When he finally finds it, he bows his head, and his eyes trail to the ground. "I'm afraid we cannot allow you to pass." It isn't so much a command as it is an  _instruction_ —a half-hearted one at that.

This pronouncement garners a quizzical look from Ukitake. His brows shoot up, and he gives her an alarmed sidelong glance—one that she imagines goes largely unnoticed by the guards.

The good captain probably doesn't quite understand.

Truth be told, neither does she.

Sure, her husband's proclivity for protecting his family is understandable. He is the clan leader after all, and, as per his duty, he is responsible for the safety of his family members, and,  _sure_ , her pregnancy has been met with  _mixed_ reactions. Apparently, some of the members of the aristocracy are not exactly  _pleased_ that she is, first, still alive and, second, mixing noble blood with common blood.  _But_ , keeping her locked away at the estate for the remainder of her pregnancy? Doesn't that seem a touch  _extreme_? She certainly thinks so, and, she has a gut feeling that her husband does too.

So…

There is  _something else_. There has to be something more to this, something that she is not quite  _seeing_  despite her greatest efforts. Her husband is keeping news from her, and, given the lengths to which he has gone to keep her safe, the news is  _very bad_ , and she very much suspects that  _bad news_  is what drove Ukitake to the estate in search of answers.

Hisana, however, knows neither the answers nor the questions, but the drop in her stomach tells her that she will not like either when she learns them.

"The Lord's orders," the guard continues. His voice quavers, and his head drops low as if he is offering his condolences. Indeed, he does not stand proud and tall with a straight back and squared jaw. Instead, his posture is more befitting of a whipped dog than that of a guard. "Please, forgive this inconvenience, milady."

Hisana's smile slips slightly, but she recovers just in time to manage a small approving nod. "I understand," she says, holding back her disappointment. She doesn't really understand, and her confusion rings in the cold hollowness of her voice.

None of it makes sense. Not yet, at least. But it will. In time. She is sure of it.

With a clenched jaw and imploring stare, she inclines her head enough to meet Ukitake's bemused gaze. "Captain, would you mind terribly if I asked you to escort me back to the manor?" A devious spark ignites in her eyes.

"The pleasure is mine," he says politely, reading her meaning well.

Without further ado, the pair turns to the wandering footpath leading to the estate. A few quiet moments pass between them. The silence, pregnant with meaning, however, ends once Hisana feels they are at a safe distance. No prying eyes. No prying ears.

She tilts her head to the side and glimpses the captain's stormy countenance. His mind is locked on some weighty thought. He barely notices her at all.

She parts her lips. Words pound against the entrance of her throat, and she feels them begin to creep into her mouth, where they stay. Ukitake prematurely interrupts her thoughts when he shoots her a sly look. "I could kidnap you." He speaks the words too intensely for her to take them only in jest.

Nonetheless, she brushes the offer away, giggling politely into a sleeved arm. She can feign ignorance with the best of them. It has become her specialty. "I can think of a less illegal alternative, Captain." An arched brow hints at the devious sincerity that lingers below her offer.

He grins knowingly at this.  _Go on_ , his expression practically begs of her.

Jerking her head in the direction of the manor, her face lights up the moment her mind solves the riddle. "Follow me."

Hardly a word passes between them as they reach the expansive estate, where they pass through unnoticed. Hisana has the servants' schedules and patterns  _memorized_. Long months spent tethered to her quarters has made her an expert.

Quietly, they trace a winding path to a large vacant room. It is immaculate. The tatami is freshly laid, and the wood trim has been recently burnished. It smells like summer—fresh citrus and clipped grass.

Hisana stops at a wall, where she begins to knock against the adjoining panels. Carefully, she listens to the echo of each knock before moving along the wall.  _This must look strange._ She can only imagine what Captain Ukitake thinks of her behavior. He probably finds her eccentric. If he does, he does not raise his concern. Not yet, at least.

Feeling a great deal awkward and borderline crazy, Hisana frantically searches the wall. The sensation of cool stale air rising up from under one of the panels alerts her to a possibility—a possibility that she is quick to exploit. Rapping a knuckle against the wall, she exhales a long breath.

A hollow response sets her heart racing in her chest. Immediately, she finds the release and throws back the secret entrance with much relief. Ducking down, she pokes her head through the opening. The passageway is dark and dank, but it leads away from the manor.

"A tunnel?" Ukitake murmurs, following her gaze. He sounds vaguely  _amused_  at the finding.

_Amused but not surprised._

"Yes, Yachiru showed me the secret tunnel a few months ago. Apparently, she has been using them to sneak into the manor."

Ukitake grins at this. "Of course."

"I always wanted to ask Lord Byakuya why they were here, but the opportunity never came." And, boy, is she relieved that she never mentioned the secret tunnels. If she had, she has no doubt that her husband would have ordered the tunnels sealed the next day.

"I suppose they came about in response to the War," Ukitake remarks in a breezy tenor.

Hisana's gaze flits to her companion.  _Oh, really?_  The question spreads across her features, but she never inquires. Her imagination quickly fills in the holes.

Stepping into the tunnels, Ukitake halts as he soon as he finds his footing and helps her down. "Do you know the way?"

She shakes her head. The moment her foot meets the cold damp step, she gives the corridor a cursory glance.

 _Oh, Yachiru_ …

A sly smile thins her lips at her discovery. "I suppose we follow the candy wrappers," she says, repressing the urge to laugh at the trail of brightly-colored cellophane wrappers glistening in the dimly lit corridor.

"To the Eleventh, then." Ukitake gives her a knowing onceover and, then, offers her his arm, careful to ensure she does not slip on the slick stones that line the floor.


End file.
